


Legacies

by Whedonista93



Series: Spooky Season 2020 [16]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, Immortality, Shapeshifting, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: "Did you know a Shifter can be a witch, little wolf?"
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Spooky Season 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958881
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	Legacies

Her kind were hunted to near extinction in ancient times.

Jon, Arya, Bran, and Sansa are all that remains of the Stark blood. Tyrion is all that’s left of the Lannister line. Tormund and a few odd Wildlings still rove the wilds beyond the ruins of the Wall. Everyone else… everyone else is gone.

Jon and Arya are fighters. Bran and Tyrion are brilliant. Tormund and his lot are just too contrary to fade into obscurity.

Sansa… Sansa is more conniving than she’ll likely ever admit, though it’s not entirely her fault. It had been near the height of the war when Olenna Tyrell started appearing in her dreams.

* * *

_ “Sansa Stark,” Olenna smiles. “I always knew you were strong enough to survive this game.” _

_ “Lady Tyrell? I… am I dreaming?” Sansa asks. _

_ Olenna nods. “You are, my girl. I’m afraid I have left this mortal plane, and this is the only place I can reach you.” _

_ Sansa tilts her head. “The rumors are true, then? That the Tyrell women are witches?” _

_ “They are,” Olenna nods. “But the Tyrell line is no more, my girl.” _

_ “I am sorry,” Sansa tells her, with genuine remorse. “You were kind to me, as was Margaery, and neither of you had reason to be.” _

_ “People should not need a reason to be kind to one another, dear.” _

_ Sansa shrugs. _

_ “Too many lineages and legacies have been destroyed by this war.” _

_ Sansa clenches her eyes closed, silently mourning how many of her own family are gone. “I agree. Far too many.” _

_ “My lineage is beyond saving, young Lady Stark, but the Tyrell legacy might yet be saved.” _

_ Sansa blinks her eyes open. “How so, my lady?” _

_ Olenna grins. “Did you know a Shifter can be a witch, little wolf?” _

* * *

Sansa’s wolf is larger than Arya’s, but not quite as large as Jon’s, and her coat is a sleek russet. And the Tyrell magic surges through her. Olenna’s gift to her, in return for the promise that the Tyrell family’s legacy would live on. Sansa relies on her wolf’s instincts when she has to fight in that form, but in her human form…

In her human form, Sansa cultivated lilacs until every one that blooms in her gardens boasts five petals. She puts plackets of dried rosemary, basil, vervain, mint, sage, and bayleaf amongst her loved ones belongings. She embroiders runes into the collars, hems, and cuffs of the clothes she sews. She weaves protection and vitality and strength into her skin and winds it around her family. She presses tins of mint and cinnamon teas into their hands every time their paths cross throughout the years. Her family give her odd looks, on occasion, but accept her little gifts without comment. 

It takes a couple decades, but eventually, she convinces Jon to stay in Winterfell.

She makes her way south, to Highgarden, with a stop in King’s Landing to see Bran, but she ends up on a bridge near the outer walls of the Red Keep before she can find him. She’s not surprised when he finds her instead.

“I almost pushed Joffrey off this bridge,” Sansa tells him without turning around.

“I know,” Bran’s voice almost sounds like he’s smiling.

“Sandor stopped me.”

“He was…”

Sansa closes her eyes. “He was. I couldn’t accept it at the time.” She shakes her head, shaking away memories she can’t do anything about. “I came to tell you what I’m sure you already know. Jon has taken up the seat of Winterfell. I’m for Highgarden.”

Bran raises a brow. “No one has been able to enter the grounds since Olenna Tyrell’s death.”

“I’ll be able to,” Sansa reassures.

* * *

Sansa adores the invention of cell phones more than almost anything else the modern age has produced.

Sansa is packing herbs into tea tins when her phone buzzes.

**Bran:** Go North.

**Sansa:** I’ll be there next week.

**Bran:** Go now.

**Sansa:** The cryptic shit got old a millenia ago, Bran.

**Bran:** Tormund sent me this an hour ago.

**Bran:** _ image attached  _

Sansa’s hands shake so badly she drops her phone. As soon as she can control the tremors, she picks it back up and dials Tormund.

“My ginger goddess!” Tormund greets exuberantly.

“Where the fuck did you take that picture?” Sansa demands.

“Huh?”

Sansa blows out a breath. “The picture you sent Bran this morning.”

“A couple miles west of where I’m camped out now.”

“Are you at your camp?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Sansa hangs up and closes her eyes, focusing on Tormund’s essence, and opens a portal, stepping out of it and right into the middle of his campsite. Tormund actually yelps and stumbles back. Sansa winces. She’s never used magic so blatantly in front of anyone but Bran.

“What the fuck, girl?” Tormund demands.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “I promise I’ll explain later. That picture. Where?”

Tormund points west.

Sansa nods and shifts, running due west until she catches the scent she’s searching for and adjusting slightly south. It’s a scent she hasn’t smelled in a solid millenia, but she recognizes it in her very soul. Once she catches it, it takes her mere minutes to find him. She shifts mid-stride, and kicks open the cabin door, magic sparking visibly around her.

The sole occupant’s face is slack with shock.

Sansa punches him right in the jaw. “A thousand fucking years and you couldn’t let me know you were alive?!”

He blinks up at her, rubbing his jaw. “Sansa?”

Sansa’s fury cools, and she kneels next to him. “Sandor.” She reaches out and brushes her fingers over his jaw, letting her touch heal the damage her strike caused. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Sandor huffs a breath. “I deserved it.”

“You let me think you were dead.”

“You didn’t want me.”

Sansa lifts her other hand to his other cheek. “I did not want you when I was a frightened child, Sandor. The next time I saw you, we were at war.”

Sandor closes his eyes. “And then I didn’t come back.”

Sansa brushes her thumbs over his cheeks. “And then you didn’t come back.” She shifts forward to straddle his legs. “Sandor, you’re  _ mine _ . Of course I wanted you. I  _ want _ you. I mourned, when you didn’t come back.”

He drops his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry, Little Bird.”

“I’ll forgive you as long as you come home with me.”

Sandor chuckles. “How could I refuse?”

Sansa drops her hands from his face to rest her arms on his shoulders. “I’m sorry I was such a horrid child.”

Sandor brushes her loose hair over her shoulder. “You were a mere girl surviving in a world no one should have had to endure.”

“The modern world’s much friendlier.”

“Haven’t seen much of it,” he admits.

Sansa smiles. “Let me show it to you.”

Sandor’s hands skid down her sides. “Anything you want to show me… though you’re showing an awful lot right now.”

Sansa glances down at her nude form and blushes. “It was easier to catch your scent in wolf form. My clothes are probably in shreds back in Tormund’s camp.”

“How did you find me?”

Sansa smiles. “Tormund sent Bran and Jon a photo of a rather large black dog that has no place running wild this far north.”

Sandor shakes his head. “Nosy buggers.”

Sansa stands, and offers Sandor a hand. He takes it. Sansa opens a portal into her kitchen at Highgarden and tugs Sandor through with her. She picks her phone up off the counter and opens the camera, leaning back against Sandor and snapping a selfie. She sends it before she realizes her portal is still open in the background.


End file.
